For John
by Bitrektual
Summary: Sherlock composed a tune he plays on the nights John has his nightmares. John thinks it's coincidence and only worked out it was a personal lullaby when he found the sheet music, title simply "For John", during Sherlock's 'death'.
1. Chapter 1

The soft cries of the distressed ex-soldier were faint, but Sherlock had long since trained himself to react to the sound. Like a mother might wake upon hearing her babe cry, the lanky detective's eyes came open and he shifted from where he had passed out on the couch. The fire was nearly dead, the glow of the coals casting an eerie light on the walls. The shadow of his father's skull, sitting in its place on the mantelpiece, grinned in delight. The flat was quiet save for the quiet whimpers coming from the other bedroom.

Untangling his long legs from the folds of his navy blue silk dressing gown, Sherlock rose to his feet and stepped carelessly over the table. He had little regard for the furniture, and barely acknowledged it as he moved through the flat as he pleased.

Kneeling by the fire, Sherlock tossed a few small pieces of wood into the dying embers and took in a deep breath, blowing it out gently across the coals and making them flare to life again. Flames formed and licked at the untouched wood, charring the outside and sinking deep as they slowly grew to life. A satisfied smile flashed across Sherlock's lips, and he rose to his feet again. The distress from the next room had quieted, but Sherlock wasn't worried.

He took up his violin as he settled into his chair and, as if on cue, John stepped into the sitting room from his bedroom, looking thoroughly worn out and a bit forlorn. Sherlock didn't like to see his friend looking so put out, but lacked the social graces to outwardly express such concern. So instead he had devised a song, inspired by the melodies that John had taken a liking to. By studying the styles that John seemed to enjoy, Sherlock had written a lullaby for his friend.

It was titled simply "For John", and he had long since memorized it and stuffed it away where prying eyes would be unlikely to come across it. He was a very private man when it came down to it, and what stuck close to home tended to be well hidden. John settled into his chair and glanced apologetically at Sherlock, who feigned ignorance and looked up at John inquisitively.

"Haven't you slept yet?" he asked, obviously unaware that Sherlock had just woken from his own slumber minutes before. In answer, Sherlock merely shook his head and strummed idly at the violin a moment.

"I assure you, I am a heavy sleeper at the best of times. You need not worry about waking me unnecessarily," he replied, and his answer seemed to satisfy his dear Watson, as the man settled into his chair and stared wearily at the fire. He was still on the verge of sleep, and Sherlock took his chance.

Raising the violin to rest beneath his chin, he started the tune and let it play gently, softly. Filling the room, John hardly moved as he listened to the tune. Sherlock played it for him regularly, and John had often begged him to tell him where the melody had come from, but Sherlock refused to tell.

John watched the fire and let the music wash over him, his eyelids slowly growing heavier and heavier until they finally closed completely. Sherlock smiled again as he watched his friend settled comfortably into the chair and fall into a much more peaceful sleep. No expressions of worry, no cries of fear. Sherlock continued to play until the melody had met its end and the only sound remaining was the steady breathing of John Watson.

Rising out of his chair, Sherlock took a small throw from where it was folded in a corner and spread it out, placing the fabric over the form of his resting friend. With his deed done, Sherlock settled back onto the couch and closed his eyes. John would wake the next morning to assume Mrs. Hudson had provided the blanket, and Sherlock would let him. There were few who earned such tender affection from the typically hardhearted man, but John Watson could easily be counted among them.


	2. Chapter 2

John was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand as he stared blankly into the sitting room where Sherlock usually sat playing his violin or considering a case. It had been almost three days since the funeral, and John was slowly working on finding a new flat and moving out of Baker Street. He couldn't take the quiet and the memories anymore, knowing that he'd never see Sherlock again. Never hear his violin playing, never get annoyed with his spot-on deductions. Clearing his throat, John shook his head to try and rid himself of the thoughts that filled his brain. Mrs. Hudson entered, and he let her presence distract him.

"You should have a window open if you're going to be sitting in the gloom like this," the landlady informed him, her own grief masked as she tended to things as usual. John simply huffed and shrugged mildly. John ignored Hudson for the mostpart as she moved throughout the flat, but when she came back from Sherlock's room with a box that she set on the table, John allowed himself to be pulled momentarily from his fog of sorrow. "These are some of Sherlock's things, sheet music, pictures, the like... She thinks I don't know where he hides it, but I know more than he thinks," she told him, before marching back out.

John sat in silence, then let a small smile cross his lips. He knew Mrs. Hudson was trying to cheer him up, encouraging him to look through the box and find closure. But John felt certain such closure would be hard to come by as he pulled the box closer and pulled out various scribbles of sheet music, glancing over the notes and titles with some interest. When one caught his eye titled simply "For John", however, he frowned in confusion and opened the envelope, unfolding the piece of paper.

His eyes scanned the notes, forming in his head the tunes they might make. He was no mucisian, of course, but anyone could sort out the general do re mi of a song if they paid any attention to music at all. It took a few minutes, but eventually he began to form the tune in his head and a shot of familiarity stung his heart. He could recall the tune being played now and again when John was having a rough night. He had often asked Sherlock what it was, but Sherlock would simply shrug and tell him that it was "just a little melody".

For John.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John whispered, picking the envelope back up and looking over the two little words, in Sherlock's usual chicken scratch. Tears stung his eyes and he felt as though his heart might physically shatter in two, so deep and sharp and real was the pain that he felt in his chest. Sherlock had written that melody for John, especially for John. No doubt for the nights when he woke up from nightmares, because that was when he'd always heard it.

Pressing the sheet music against his face and overcome with emotion, John laid his head on the kitchen table and wept.


End file.
